


Happy Birthday, Johnny

by sunriseseance



Series: We took the blame, took our bags to the train [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunriseseance/pseuds/sunriseseance
Summary: It’s a nice place. Allison made sure of that when she chose it the first time. Three stays ago. God, they’re only 23 (And they are 23 now, or close enough). Three times? She may as well be lighting her money on fire.Still, the chairs are comfortable. The visiting room is empty, of course, apart from a man with deep, heavy bags under his eyes. Fluorescent lights hum above her as she waits. They wash everything out, cast everything in a harsh shadow. Not that anything about the experience isn’t harsh. This is stupid. She knows it, now, as she feels her heart beating in her throat and the backs of her legs and her fingers.What if he doesn’t want to see her? What if he was asleep for, what, the first time in 13 days? That’s how long it’s been this time, right? What if he hates her? (What if he’s right to do so?)





	Happy Birthday, Johnny

**Author's Note:**

> This is an angsty number about Klaus and Allison reuniting on a birthday.

They wrap at midnight, Allison notes. It sounds like a lie, or an estimation. If Patrick calls and asks when she wrapped for the night, she’d have to tell him it was exact. To the minute. Maybe the second, even. The director calls “cut!” for the final time at exactly 12:00am on the 1st of October, 2012. In 12 hours, Allison will be 23. She doesn’t feel it. 

Patrick doesn’t call. It’s 9 where he is, right? So he should still be up. He knows it’s her birthday. He knows how much she hates her birthday. He knows it’s hard for her to be back in town to film at all, let alone on their birth--her birthday. He knows she’s miserable. He knows. He doesn’t call. 

The wrap party is across town at a club she used to walk by as a kid when she snuck her way to fancy department store windows, to the theater, to the neighborhoods where homes look like homes. Whatever. She’s never been in, though. A letter burns a hole in her pocket, and says that streak might not change. 

Really, she should go. She’s the goddamn star of the thing. If People or Star or US Weekly or any of the other things that aren’t actually persons as much as they feel like her own personal enemies catch wind of her absence she’ll be painted as cold. Standoffish. Uncaring. Ungrateful. 

Her assistant sits with her in the back of a big, unremarkable car. She has a clipboard with papers Allison would love to see, and she looks out the window without her eyes ever focusing. Angela is tired, of course, it’s midnight (on October 1st) and she’s going above and beyond by arranging this ride, let alone riding with Allison. Normally, Angela doesn’t wear glasses. Contacts, Allison guesses, because she has nothing better to do. Nothing but think about the letter in her pocket. And she doesn’t want to do that. 

It’s a bill, really. Calling it a letter makes it too personal. Not like the paper addresses her personally. Well, it does, it has her first name, her last name, the amount she’s being charged. A signature at the bottom. A thank you. It doesn’t ask her how she’s doing, though. It doesn’t ask about the film she just wrapped, or about her plans for her two weeks off. It tells her that she owes $15,000 dollars. It says her name. That’s it. 

She’s hot. The goddamn driver said the air broke, as if he wasn’t charging luxury prices. It shouldn’t be 79 in October, anyway. Not at night. She can feel her makeup coming off, as if she has time for that. As if she’s not late already because she doesn’t fucking want to come. As if she hadn’t ripped her dress on the door because the driver forgot to mention it was sharp. 

As if it isn’t her birthday. 

“Angela, can I ask you to call someone for me?” she asks. They’re stopped at a red light, thank god. 

“Of course. That’s my job,” Angela sits herself back upright and Allison notes that, hm, Anegla isn’t wearing her seatbelt. 

“It’s, uh, a little more than a call. I’m sorry,” Allison says. She fiddles, absently, with the rip on her dress. The fabric frays at the edges, and gets worse as she rubs it. 

“You want me to find gifts for your siblings?” 

So she did remember. 

“Not quite. Could you call St. Thomas’s?” It’s not a question. She knows it’s not a question. They both do. 

“They’re probably closed, Allison.” Allison sees Angela go through her papers anyway. Finding the number, maybe. Maybe trying to remember, desperately, just what in the hell St. Thomas’s is. 

“No. Not a place like that. Security is crazy there. Trust me.” 

Allison has no idea if they’ll have someone running the phone at 1:45am (on October 1st) but doubt never became her. She learned quickly as a child to roll her doubts into a big ball and swallow them down. Stomach acid kills them, like it does most things. 

She hopes. 

“Okay, yeah. I’ll call. I’ll ask the Jazz Work’s owner if I can use their phone. Will that be soon enough?” 

“No. Let’s go to the hotel.” 

“Allison, that’s not a good idea.” 

“I didn’t ask. Give the driver the hotel’s address.”

“You know John will tell the press. They’ll be on your ass about this for, I mean who knows how long? Allison, come on.”

“God, you think I don’t know that? I don’t care. I didn’t ask, Angela. I asked you to take me home, and to call St. Thomas’s. Can you do that, or should I find someone else to do it for me?” The problem with swallowing doubt is that sometimes it makes your mouth taste like the bile it drowns in. She needs to brush her teeth. 

“I’m sorry. Of course,” she says as she hands the driver a card with a new, better address on it and exchanges a few words Allison tries her best not to hear. 

Jesus Christ Allison is hot. She’d take her jacket off, but Daily Mail said her arms were fat and she can’t take that right now. Plus, the letter--the bill--is in her pocket in her jacket and if she’s not touching it she’s afraid it’ll disappear. Or worse, she’s afraid she’ll forget about it. She bites her lip until she tastes blood, like she did when she was a kid. 

When she was a kid, she’d bite her lip to stop herself from speaking, or crying, or breathing. Whatever would set Dad off at the moment, not that she always knew, she wanted to prevent. The blood was a panacea then, and it feels like one now, coating her teeth. She’s glad it’s hers. She’s glad she has blood. 

When she was a kid, she bit her lip to stop herself from digging her fingernails into Dad’s flesh and tearing it off of him. She was a disappointment, he said. Allison bit her lip and let the blood make her nod along. Let it make her step aside and let him get carried away. Let it bleach her memory as she painted her nails and her nails alone. 

  
When she was a kid, Allison worried that she was a bad person. 

“I assume I’m calling to tell them to stop charging to you?” Angela chills Allison to the bone.

“No. No, of course not. I want you to tell them I’m coming to visit. Right now.” She watches Angela take a deep breath, close her eyes behind her glasses. Angela is beautiful. Is this really what she wants to do with her life?

“Allison,” Angela says with a gentleness that makes Allison’s throat ache, “it’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah, well, I’m rich and they’re a nonprofit. They’ll let me see him.” And who ever said she got her roles using her powers?

“I don’t feel good about this. I’m sorry. I know it’s your birthday and you’re tired. I think you should think this through. At least wait until tomorrow. I don’t know if you’ve ever visited someone like him in rehab, but it’s not fun. My mom--it’s only gonna make you feel worse.” Angela’s hand is soft and hot on Allison’s knee. Her left, ring finger nail is chipped. Ballet slipper acrylic on the other fingers, but black on that one. For the first time in three years, Allison notices that Angela is left handed. Just like him. 

“You don’t know that.” She can’t wad the doubt up fast enough to swallow it. 

“Allison, I do. I’m just looking out for--” 

Allison doesn’t let her finish.

“I heard a rumor that you thought this was a great idea.” 

Allison bites her lip again as the blue flashes over Angela’s eyes. 

“I’ll call as soon as we get to the hotel. It’s so kind of you to visit him, Allison,” she says. 

They sit the rest of the ride in the kind of silence that drowns people. Allison’s head swims. She wishes she was drunk, briefly, then laughs at the irony. God, she’s so tired. The day started at 4:30am (September 31st), which means she’s pushing 21 hours now. She must look terrible. At least she’s meeting Klaus where he’s at. He’s never slept well. 

Her keycard doesn’t work the first two times she swipes it and it almost makes her scream. How can something so goddamn simple fail that badly? Jesus. Then the light switch shocks her, and her heel catches on the threshold between the bathroom tile and the carpet. The water is so hot it burns her hands. She looks in the mirror, and she sees a placeholder with wild hair and red, angry eyes. It bares its teeth. 

She decides, then, not to change out of her dress. It’s fancy. Beautiful. It fits her well. She looks good in it. She doesn’t let herself sit down, either. Not even in the desk chair. Certainly not on the bed. 

Angela comes in and doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. 

“They’ve agreed to let him see you. I told them you’ve got an early flight out of here tomorrow, so stick to that story. We’ve got to leave now, though.”

Angela grabs Allison’s purse for her, which she doesn’t usually do. Allison takes it back. 

“He’s going to be so happy to see you.” She smiles as she says this. Allison sees through it. She sees herself reflected in Angela’s big white teeth. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a nice place. Allison made sure of that when she chose it the first time. Three stays ago. God, they’re only 23 (And they are 23 now, or close enough). Three times? She may as well be lighting her money on fire. 

Still, the chairs are comfortable. The visiting room is empty, of course, apart from a man with deep, heavy bags under his eyes. Fluorescent lights hum above her as she waits. They wash everything out, cast everything in a harsh shadow. Not that anything about the experience isn’t harsh. This is stupid. She knows it, now, as she feels her heart beating in her throat and the backs of her legs and her fingers. 

  
What if he doesn’t want to see her? What if he was asleep for, what, the first time in 13 days? That’s how long it’s been this time, right? What if he hates her? (What if he’s right to do so?)

On their 13th birthday, before everything went wrong, Klaus snuck into her room at midnight with a magazine he stole and a cake he made. The smell of smoke stuck to all of his clothes, his skin, his hair. He gave her the cake, all of it, and the magazine. The smile that accompanied them haunts her. 

He asked if he could sit with her, and she said yes. He asked if she’d ever smoked before, and she said no. He asked if she wanted to, and she said yes. He asked if she wanted weed or a cigarette, she said cigarette. That’s what the movie stars did. He gave her a look, a laugh, and showed her how to hold it so it didn’t burn her fingers. Not that he’d lit it yet. He wanted to make sure she had it down before he set her on fire. 

Inhale shallow, hold, remove cigarette, inhale deep, exhale, repeat until you feel whole again, he said. She laughed, but she didn’t know why. He made her practice a few times without fire, until he was pretty sure she got it. In retrospect, he didn’t want Reginald to hear her cough. It worked. Her head buzzed and her body felt warm. She watched as Klaus lit his own and she smiled at the practiced ease. His hands did it without him, almost. 

I’m not straight, he said after a few hours of sitting and eating cake and smoking and reading a magazine. I know, she replied. I know you know, he said. I wanted to tell you anyway. You’re the only one that does. 

Then she said well I’m not so sure about that, and she regretted it when she saw the face he made. Broken glass. Yeah, well, dad would kill me if he knew, so don’t tell him, he said. I’d never let that happen, she replied, and he smiled again. A real smile, not a big one. Happy Birthday, Allison. 

She let dad drag him away anyway. 

Allison quit smoking, mostly, at 21. She needed her voice, and she didn’t like the smell of it. Still, she finds the wait for Klaus making her hand shake for a cigarette. Maybe we can kill each other, she thinks, just as she hears his voice in the distance. It always carried well.

Then she hears what he’s saying, and her heart drops into her stomach and begins to dissolve in the battery acid that’s taken residence there. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Klaus knows he’s got it better than most junkies. He’s got a rich sister paying for every cent of rehab the court system throws his way. He’s got a home to break into with plenty of shit to sell, and a mom that’s out of it enough to cook for him as if he isn’t out of his mind. 

Still, three days without sleep, alone on his birthday (because, yes, it is 2:31am on October 1st), he allows himself a little bit of self pity to wallow in. There’s not a pulse in the world that cares about him. Not really. A tremor wracks his body and he swears he can feel his bones shatter. There’s a junkie in the corner with foam pouring out of his mouth. He’s screaming. Klaus vomits in his mouth, and it’s nothing but bile. He hasn’t kept anything down for three days, either. This is a bad one, and he knows it. If he makes it out, he’s getting so high it kills him. 

Metaphorically, of course. 

So, yeah, when God Damned Kenneth comes into his room at basically three in the morning (on October 1st) and turns the light on, he’s less than pleased. And when he says that Klaus has to get up because, for the first time ever, he has a visitor, it adds insult to injury. 

He can barely stand. He feels the floor moving underneath him, and he feels his head pounding, and his stomach churning, and he sees ten people that he knows aren’t there when he walks through them. His head hurts. He’s drenched in sweat. Both he and Kenneth know that he should be approaching week two of this detox, that he should be past the worst of it now. Both he and Kenneth know that he’s been sneaking drugs. Both he and Kenneth know that means he gets kicked out, which means he goes to jail again. 

“You know, you could’ve waited until tomorrow,” he says, and he lets the venom carry him onward, “it is my birthday, after all. Could’ve kicked me out tomorrow, instead. Or at least told me the truth. Nobody cares about me. C’mon, Brent, we both know I don’t have a visitor. It’s three in the morning. Which is, by the way, witching hour. Not fun when I’m sober. Which I am. Three--c’mon, three days now. That’s pretty good, right? It could be worse?” 

“You do have a visitor, Klaus. Believe me, I wish we were kicking you out.” Kenneth’s grip on his arm tightens. It hurts. 

“Fine. Who is it, then?” Klaus doesn’t believe him. 

“Your sister.”

“No. Vanya would never come here. She hates fluorescent lights and abysmally depressing habitats. Couldn't even take her to the zoo. No way she’s here.”

“Your other sister. The one paying for your sorry ass to be here.” Kenneth swipes a key card once, twice, before it beeps and lets them through the wire door and into the waiting room. Klaus only bothers to look up then. 

Every ounce of fire he’d built up in his blood leaves him. She’s right there, sitting at a table at three in the morning in a beautiful dress. She’s there to see him. It feels unreal. Surreal. Like he’s dreamed it. Like he finally got to sleep and his mind is so fried it decided to give him the perfect middleground between a good dream and a nightmare. He checks the walls, just in case they’re dripping. 

She looks beautiful. The yellow of the dress catches the yellow of her skin. She’s covered in sweat. She’s furious. He wants to run. 

“Allison?” he says, sitting down across from her. Should he hug her?

“Klaus.” He looks in her eyes to see what he should do, but he doesn’t find an answer. 

“Um. Happy birthday?” Worth a shot. 

“You look like Hell.” She fiddles with a paper she’s holding. His eyes are too unfocused to try to read it. 

“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.”

“Do you really think none of us care about you? Jesus, Klaus, I’m paying out the ass every time you decide to come here. You think I’d do that if I didn’t care?” Oh good. Just what he needed. 

“Ally, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” They both know he’s lying. 

“Why’d you say it, then? You know what would happen if that jackass you said that to told the press that I don’t care about you? It’d be Hell for me.”

He doesn’t try to find it in himself to care. Instead, he leans back in the chair, and covers his eyes with his arm. He wishes he could cover his ears without getting yelled at. It’s not her. It’s the damn lights.

Ben flickers into existence in the corner, and he looks angry, too. 

“Well, I guess I said it because I wanted him to take pity on me. Let me suck his dick so I can stay here instead of going to prison. You know how it is.” 

“No, Klaus, I don’t. I work hard to get what I want. Have you tried staying sober?”

Of course he’s tried it. Does she think this is fun for him? That he enjoys it? 

“Is that so, Miss Rumor?” He knows it’s a mistake before it leaves his throat. He’s never been known for keeping his mouth shut. 

“Fuck you, Klaus.” She means it. He can tell. 

“Why are you here?” He can hear the desperation in his own voice, which is a strange experience. He has no idea what he’s desperate for. 

On their 14th birthday, Klaus mustered up the energy to go to Allison’s room and see her. She didn’t know, he hoped, how many pills were in his system. If he’d played it right, she thought he smoked. That’s it. Five was gone, yeah, and Ben was retreating into himself. Dad took him almost every night to go out to the cemetery, but had promised him their birthday off if he could have one successful conversation with a ghost. He did it, though he didn’t expect Reginald to keep to his word. He decided to risk it anyway. 

The cake was gone this year, he didn’t have time. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t use it. He’d been passed out for the past six hours. No magazine, either. Just a packet of cigarettes. Allison asked him why he was there when he opened her door without knocking. He didn’t have an answer. 

Instead, he got out his lighter, and a cigarette, and he placed it between her lips. She didn’t spit it out. An invitation. 

I didn’t want you to spend your birthday alone, he said. She smiled and pulled him into a hug. He hoped she didn’t notice when he jumped out of his skin. A tall ask, she was left holding a bag of flesh that lacked any internal structure. That had to be obvious. And disgusting. He shook his head, hoping it would bring his bones back, and he lit her cigarette. She’d been practicing, he noticed, or at the very least she hadn’t forgotten. 

He had to shut his eyes, for a second, because the guilt overwhelmed him. He was killing her. 

Dad’s taking me every night, he said to keep up the tradition. It’s horrible. I can’t handle it. Allison, he said, it’s killing me. He didn't ask for her help, though. She pet his hair, painted his nails, and told him she’d help him. 

She never did. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Allison doesn’t have an answer. Actually, she does. She’s worried she killed him. That she caused this. That if she didn’t visit today she’d never see him again. The bill was the third bill, right? In just over a year? At 23? She’s not stupid. She knows Klaus is dying from this. She knows this is going to kill him. Looking at him, thinner than he’s ever been, pale, covered in sweat, she’s half convinced it already has. She’s half convinced she inhereted his power in his will and what she sees in front of her now is a corpse. Maybe that would be a mercy. 

Maybe she blames herself. Maybe she thinks she killed him. 

“Because I know you don’t actually care how I’m doing. You never have.”

That’s not true. 

“Because I know none of us care about each other. It’s all bullshit, yeah? We’re not a family. We’re barely enemies. Diego would kill me on sight if he ever saw me again. So why, Allison, are you here? I’ve been trying to figure it out. Because it’s not because you love me.”

She does.

“You see. I think, actually, that it’s because nobody else wished you a happy birthday. You knew I would yeah? For old time’s sake?” 

He loved her, right? He did?

“Well, happy birthday, Allison. Happy 23. Excited to see you win a second Oscar, if I can catch it on the TV in the bar in front of the alley I live in. So glamorous. How much do those dresses cost?”

“That’s not fair,” Allison says. She doesn’t know which part she means. 

“Welcome to life, Allison. I’ll be dead by 30. If you’re lucky, you will too.” 

“I came here,” she lies, “to tell you that I’m done. I’m done paying for this. You get clean this time, or you’re on your own, okay?” 

She watches his face. It holds steady in a smirk. 

“You heard the part about being dead by 30, right?”

“I do love you, Klaus. I really do. I’m sorry about…” She can’t finish that sentence. She watches him sit back up She watches his mask melt just enough to see regret. 

“Yeah, well, me too.”

“Happy birthday, Klaus,” she says, “I hope this is the last time you stay in a place like this. I really do.”

She grabs her purse and gets up in one motion. She walks away, and he doesn’t stop her. She can feel his eyes on the back of her head. Her feet hurt.

She buys a pack of cigarettes. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a part 2 where, at 30 and 31, they have a happier birthday than before but I simply didn't have time. If you're interested in that, let me know!


End file.
